A Second Chance
by Riene
Summary: This will hopefully be a new novel, and is set immediately after the ALW musical. Don't look for it to get any happier for a while, though hopefully, it will end up as an E/C.
1. Default Chapter

**A/N**—This is the first chapter of a new novel, based on the characters from _The Phantom of the Opera_, by Gaston Leroux, _Phantom_, by Susan Kay, and the musical by ALW and the Really Useful Group. The scenery is my own, as are the slightly different characterizations. This novel is not set in my _Red Rose_ timeline, though it borrows many aspects of that phiction. You will no doubt recognize the underground home and other parts of that story finding their way into this story as well. It is set immediately after the end of the ALW stage play, and I'll probably change the title later.

**To my long-time readers**—no, I've not forgotten about the lastof _Night Encounters_, but those Muses are being rather stubbornly uncooperative these days. I'll complete and post them eventually…

**The Usual Disclaimer**—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, music, religion, history, and French language are mine, and for that, I apologize.

**Please read and review.**

**Revised December 2004**

**_A Second Chance_**

Copyright 2003, 2004 by Riene

**_Chapter 1_**

_Close Every Door_

_Close every door to me_

_Hide all the world from me _

_Bar all the windows, and shut out the light…_

_Do what you want with me_

_Hate me, and laugh at me_

_Darken my daytime, and torture my night…_

_If my life were important_

_I would ask--will I live or die…_

_Lyrics by Tim Rice_

_From__ Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat_

His breath coming now only in shallow, agonizing gasps, he dragged himself slowly, painfully to the edge of the lake and lay there beside the cold, deep still waters. After the blackness receded, Erik trailed a bloody hand through the water, fouling it with dirt and his life's fluid. Slowly he pulled the hand back to his throbbing face, dripping the bitter droplets into his cracked and swollen mouth. Water…that most precious of liquids…water for a dying man.

How long he lay there beside the lake, Erik did not know. He drifted in and out of consciousness, aware the only reason he lived was that the crowd had thought him dead, had left him for dead. He had been oblivious when they had looted his underground home, had stripped it of the treasures accumulated over a solitary lifetime of travel.

Now he lay beside the lake, his life ebbing. He was bleeding internally, he knew, shuddering away from the memory of booted feet striking him over and over; the knife-like scrape of cracked and broken ribs raking his sides with every labored breath. His fractured right arm and fingers were tucked inside the tattered remains of his jacket, where he had wedged them before this final journey. The men had beaten his body with clubs, had stamped on hands, even as his writhing fingers had curled convulsively inward on themselves for protection. He would never make music again.

Erik forced himself to roll over onto his back, shivering as the chill water lapped at the back of his bare skull and shoulders. At this rate, he would die of exposure or pneumonia before the bleeding took care of that issue. Already his vision was dimming, although whether it was due to the swelling of his eyes or the final flickers of the last guttering candle he could not tell. He could no longer think; the darkness was dragging him down, and there was no longer any point in fighting.

He gave way to the shadows.

--------------------------

Christine twisted the end of a long brown curl restlessly through her fingers, staring out the window. She had done little else but think these last two days, replaying the final events in the underground lair over and over in her mind. There had been little else to do; Raoul was silent, temporarily recalled to his naval detachment, and _Don Juan Triumphant_ was of necessity, no longer an option.

She rose from the settee and walked listlessly into the small kitchen of her small home, starting water boiling for a cup of tea she didn't really want. Christine sank down in one of the hard wooden chairs, hiding her face in her hands.

She could not get him out of her thoughts.

Over the months they had grown close, sharing conversations about books and music, playing chess, sharing the occasional meal. Erik had taken her for carriage rides over a Paris darkened by nightfall, had walked with her along the boulevards and winding pathways of the great parks, had lavished gifts of clothing and jewelry upon her, had given her the gift of music. In return she sang with him, sang for him. She was his only companionship in the haunted underground world of the Opera, his self-imposed prison.

The kettle whistled, even its cheery tone sounding mournful to her ears. Sighing, Christine rose and poured the boiling water into the white porcelain pot, inhaling the exotic steam as the leaves uncurled. Somehow, her eyes had been blind to the truth.

She had been so naïve. Her Angel of Music was not some heavenly tutor, but only a man, a desperately lonely, brilliant and tormented man who loved her, not as an indulgent father, but as a lover who wanted to make her the center of his world. This abrupt shift from teacher to suitor had frightened her with its passion and intensity. His fury over what he saw as her betrayal with Raoul had further driven Christine to seek refuge with her childhood friend, and Erik's reactions, always unpredictable, grew violent. Confused, heartsick, she had fled from him…from her feelings for him.

But now, despite the weeks of horror and fear, she missed him. Her movements stiff and strained, Christine filled a cup and moved to the small window and pushed aside the white _broderie anglaise_ curtains, looking down into the garden all tenants shared in this block of flats. Thoughts of Erik, her dark angel, kept intruding in her mind, and she could not stop wondering what had happened after their departure. She leaned against the window, thinking, turning the events of the past days over and over in her mind, then impulsively sat down the now-empty teacup. The broken man she had left was no longer the violent madman who had terrorized the Opera House for so long. He was a man, and a murderer, but she had no fears he would harm her.

Vacillating no longer, Christine wound the heavy blue cloak about her shoulders and gathered her reticule. The Opera was not open, but she had a key. Raoul was away; no one would ever know she had visited the Opera in their absence. These two days of solitude and introspection had cleared her mind of doubt, and only one thought was now present; she must know his fate. The crowd had been very near when they had fled, and her friend and mentor had seemed so defeated, so broken. She had left him to face their wrath alone. It was very possible Erik had not survived that encounter.

The coachman had pulled the carriage around to the rear of the Opera without question. Using her keys, Christine quickly entered the lower service entrance and made her way through the darkened, deserted passages quickly up to the small dressing room assigned to her. She swept the clutter of the dressing table aside and rapidly penned a note to Madame Giry.

_Madame—I have gone again to the underground house. I must know of his fate. Please do not worry—I do this of my own free will. I wanted you to know, should I not return soon._

_--Christine_

Frowning, she looked about the room. There was little here that could aid her in this quest. Christine took a deep breath, forcing herself to slow down and think. It was very likely Erik would be gone, having retreated down one of the many escape passages where he had cached emergency supplies. Should she find him dead, there was little else possible other than to enlist Madame's aid in a burial. Raoul might even be willing to help her, for the sake of the debt she owed her former teacher. And if he were injured… Christine compressed her lips tightly. She was no nurse, and had no idea where to turn. Somehow, she would have to muddle through.

After sliding the note under Madame Giry's office door, Christine proceeded around to the Rue Scribe tunnel that accessed the labyrinth. It was not the quickest way down, but she had never mastered the art of poling the gondola boat across. A faint smile curved her lips, remembering Erik's exasperation and amusement as he had instructed her in the art, but in this matter his tutelage for once had proven ineffective. The pole had slipped from her hands, and only his tight grasp on her upper arm had prevented her from falling into the lake after it, or upsetting the boat.

_He looked down at her, rare amusement sparkling in his dark eyes, the visible side of his mouth lifted in an unaccustomed smile. "Mademoiselle, you will never find employment along the canals of Venice, I fear, and you have lost us the pole," he said ruefully. _

_Christine felt the laughter burbling up inside her at his mock indignation and she smiled openly. "I'm sorry about the pole, Erik. I'm a great trial to you, obviously."_

_The amusement in his eyes had deepened, and he raised one graceful hand in a negligent gesture. "Oh, no," he murmured, "you are never that."_

_Shivers ran up her spine at the intensity of his passionate expression and she could not repress a frisson of response._

_Erik looked down at where his darkly gloved fingers still clasped the fine challis of her dress and he carefully released her arm. "Did I harm you? I fear I seized you rather abruptly."_

_"Oh, no," she whispered, still staring at him, absently rubbing the tingling spot on her arm where his hand had touched her._

_He turned away, repressing his unhappiness. Once more, the moment of laughter and friendship between them had been severed. He turned from her and surveyed the water thoughtfully, forcing his mind away from such considerations. The pole was now far out of reach, and paddling toward it might only cause the rod to float further out of range. There was not time to leave it and transport Christine to the underground house; already the current was pulling the pole toward the opposite shore where an outlet drained the lake. Erik sighed and began removing his gloves._

_Christine watched in surprise and growing discomfort as Erik slowly stripped the gloves from his long elegant hands, the movements unconsciously sensual. He unfastened the cloak and folded it neatly, dropping his gloves on top of it._

_"I will have to swim for the pole," he told her brusquely, "do not be alarmed."_

_Having quickly removed his boots and waistcoat, Erik hesitated. He should remove the mask as well; swimming with it on might prove impossible. But he had seen her face, her horrified, terrified expression weeks ago, now, after her stealthy removal of his mask, and his soul cringed. It was not an experience he cared to repeat._

_He turned, narrowly eying the pole, and without warning, dove into the cold water, breaking the surface cleanly. She watched in fascinated silence as he retrieved the rod and swam with it back to the boat. Erik shook his head at the tentative hand she extended him and pulled himself back into the small vessel, shivering in the chill air._

_The white shirt clung to his skin in nearly transparent wet wrinkles of fabric, the sodden trousers molding themselves to his narrow hips, revealing the outline of his compact, muscular body beneath, and Christine's eyes widened slightly before she blushed hotly and averted her gaze. She had never before seen a man in quite this much state of undress. Clearly, the deformities of his face did not extend to his body…_

_The knowledge that he must be chilled struck her abruptly and Christine lifted his black cloak, leaning forward to drape it carefully about his shoulders. Erik clutched it gratefully, drawing the warm folds about his body, his dark eyes meeting hers. His breath stilled in his throat, for in her eyes was a look he never thought to see; concern for his well-being._

_"Thank you, my dear," he whispered softly, and she nodded, frightened by her own sudden feelings for this man she had considered only as a mentor, as a friend. At that moment she wanted nothing more than to press herself against him, press her breasts against his wet shirt, cling to him, lift her lips to his and warm him with her own body's heat…_

_Christine shivered and turned away, a sign he interpreted incorrectly as regret at her choice to touch him. Reluctantly, Erik rose and silently guided the boat to shore._

_At the underground house, she prepared a hot drink for him as he rapidly changed into dry clothing, wrapping a dressing gown about his lean body for warmth. Christine had stayed with him, fussing at him until he consumed the tea, clearly enjoying her role as a nursemaid almost as much as he enjoyed allowing her to do so._

Thinking about this now, she smiled shyly. His cold fingers had brushed her hand, lingering for a moment longer than necessary when she had come to take away the cup. Christine had insisted he stay by the fire, even though Erik had patiently explained that he was quite warm and in no danger of falling ill. She had remained with him that evening, for her dark angel was in an unusually gentle mood. The ordinary dressing gown had made him seem so much more approachable, so much less remote, forbidding, and austere as did the formal attire he typically wore.

What would she find now, Christine wondered, hurrying toward the portcullis gate. What had happened in her absence to the man who lived beyond the lake?


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N—**Thank you all so much for your enthusiastic reviews of the first chapter! I hope this continuation will not disappoint everyone…

**The Usual Disclaimer**—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, music, religion, history, and French language are mine, and for that, I apologize in advance.

**Please read and review.**

_**A Second Chance**_

_Chapter 2_

Copyright 2003, 2004 by Riene

_On Your Shore_

_Strange how my heart beats_

_To find myself upon your shore._

_Strange how I still feel_

_My loss of comfort gone before._

_Cool waves wash over_

_And drift away with dreams of youth_

_So time is stolen_

_I cannot hold you long enough._

_And so_

_This is where I should be now_

_Days and nights falling by_

_Days and nights falling by me._

_I__know_

_Of a dream I should be holding_

_Days and nights falling by_

_Days and nights falling by me._

_Soft blue horizons_

_Reach far into my childhood days_

_As you are rising_

_To bring me my forgotten ways._

_Strange how I falter_

_To find I'm standing in deep water_

_Strange how my heart beats_

_To find I'm standing on your shore._

_Lyrics by Enya and Roma Ryan_

_From the CD Watermark_

She lifted the small brass lantern from its niche and reached for the oilskin-wrapped packet of lucifers beside it. The lamp spilled a pool of orange-gold light on the damp stone passage, perhaps one of the old Communard tunnels. Christine lifted her skirts from the slightly tacky stone floor and walked quickly down the corridor, ducking to avoid the cobwebs which seemed to have grown only in the last two days, her footsteps echoing after her. The tunnels were damp with condensation, the heavy air chill and dank. The iron railings of the staircases were slick with moisture. Shivering, Christine pulled the deep blue cloak, a recent gift from Raoul, more tightly about her shoulders. Without her teacher, her guide, the steps of the passages seemed to twist back on themselves.

At the end of an arched passage was a heavy barrier, where the hewn stone of the foundation transitioned to natural rock, the very basis of the Opera. She pulled the heavy key from her pocket and unlocked the mechanism of the portcullis gate, struggling by herself with its heavy weight in spite of the clever counterbalance Erik had installed, then secured it again behind her. Approaching the lake, Christine's heartbeat began to quicken in dread anticipation. Would he be pleased or furious with her when they next met, she wondered?

Yet, as she came near the underground house, Christine's steps slowed and faltered. It was so dark, so silent. Two days ago she had last stood on this rocky ledge, seeing the waving flames of torches casting a nightmarish, hellish light against the stone walls of the cavern, hearing the oddly distorted cries of the approaching mob. She had climbed into the boat with Raoul, leaving behind a man whose last words still echoed painfully in her mind, words that now drew her back once more to this dismal underground world.

The door stood open, a dark gaping maw in the side of the stone foundation wall. She stepped hesitantly through, raising the lamp, and inside the underground house lay in ruins. The floor was a morass of sodden carpeting, shredded manuscript paper, music, and pages torn from books. Christine gave the room a rapid, despairing glance. No effort had been made here to clean any of this disarray. Great scars marred the surfaces of the formerly polished golden paneled walls. Furniture lay overturned and broken, the mahogany splinters and jagged edges catching her trailing skirts as she stumbled past. Candelabra lay in twisted metal heaps on the floor, and the tapestries which had graced the walls hung now in shreds. Christine lifted the lamp, leaving the scene of such devastation, desperately seeking her former teacher throughout the cold musty rooms of the house, but in kitchen, bedchamber, music room, and vestibule as in the library study room, all was silence and destruction.

Her steps faltering now, Christine turned slowly to the small chamber that served as her bedchamber in Erik's house, and pressed on the carved rosettes decorating the concealed door. With a soft click, the latch released, and it opened slowly toward her; she entered, trembling.

The room was exactly as she had last beheld it, with Aminta's colorful dress lying across the neatly made bed, her costume's jeweled combs discarded on the dainty dressing table. A faint hint of her perfume lingered in the air. Mechanically, Christine lit the heavy round candles on the bedside table, then stood, hugging the fluted pillar of the poster-bed. This room was untouched, unchanged. Where was Erik?

Leaving the room, Christine methodically began to search the underground house once more. The library-study seemed to have taken the brunt of the mob's wrath, and against one wall she saw what she had been most dreading to find, the dried crimson-brown streaks and splashes of old blood. Heedless of the debris, she knelt and touched the stains, dread replacing worry.

"Oh, my God, no…Erik, Erik, what have they done to you?" she whispered. Stricken suddenly with active fear and horror, Christine dashed from the house and on the ledge of rock that served as his terrace, lifted the lamp, holding it high, casting its pale luminous rays across the rocky shore toward the lake.

The first pass revealed nothing to her inexpert, frantic gaze. Slowly, Christine directed the beam along the shore again, frowning when it reflected dimly off a series of dully gleaming surfaces. Carefully, she sat the lamp on the ledge, then, gathering her skirts, Christine ran down the shore, and in her haste, nearly stumbled over the crumpled, prone body of the man who lay beside the murky chill waters of the lake.

She dropped to her knees beside him, drawing in her breath in shock. Almost unrecognizable in its swollen, battered state, Erik's unmasked face was a mass of injuries. Moaning aloud in fear, Christine reached out and touched his good cheek, recoiling at the clammy, cold, still flesh, then laid a trembling hand on his chest, feeling desperately for breath. Though the young singer had considered the possibility of her tutor's death, she had never thought it an actuality. His silent presence filled the building; he ruled the Opera from the shadows, an unseen specter, so vibrantly alive and in command of his surroundings that his death in this fashion had never entered her mind.

And yet, she thought she felt slight movement. Dropping beside him, Christine lowered her cheek above his lips, hearing the faintest hiss of indrawn breath and the gentle, more rapid pulse of exhalation. Pushing aside the stained and tattered remainders of his shirt, she laid a hand on his bare chest and was rewarded with the faint, thready beat of his heart.

He was alive, then. Christine rocked back on her heels, regardless of the mud, her mind racing, shaking with sudden fear and the flickering edges of panic. Erik was badly injured, that much was obvious even to her untrained eyes. What was equally apparent was that he could not remain in the chill air of the cavern and the icy waters of the lake. It was a miracle he was not dead. Surely only blind fortune and his own tremendous stamina had warded off death so far.

He was far too heavy to lift, and she did not want to exacerbate his injuries. A dim memory returned to her; a long-ago conversation in the commons room of the students' quarters in which she had lived during her years in the Conservatory. Another girl, a student at the teaching hospital, had described how she had studied the proper movement of injured patients. The girl had solemnly assured them, and had then even demonstrated to the others how it was possible to make a bed without ever moving the patient from it. Grateful now for this long-forgotten roommate's expertise, Christine rose and removed her cloak, spreading it upon the ground beside her teacher, and with difficulty, rolled him onto the cape, letting his legs dangle. She lifted the end of the cloak, digging in her heels, and began the slow, inexorable task of dragging her fallen angel back to the lair.

Panting with exertion, her hair straggling down in a sweaty mess around her face, it seemed to take forever until they reached the confines of her room. It was the only option, the only intact, undamaged site in the underground house where she had a chance to tend his wounds.

She knelt again beside him, placing a gentle hand on his lips; a trickle of breath met her fingers. Christine looked up toward the bed; lifting him that high would be impossible. Tugging the blankets from the bed, she hastily assembled a pallet on the floor and as carefully as possible rolled Erik's limp and unresisting body on to it.

Though action had calmed her earlier near-hysteria, Christine stared hopelessly down at the injured man. _Where to begin?_ She did not dare leave him to seek help. Turning, she went into the bath chamber of her room. Fortunately, the water still ran cleanly into the marble hand basin. Retrieving a bowl from the kitchen, she filled it and dampened several cloths. With a tired plié, she sat beside him on the floor, gently cleaning the dried blood and dirt from his poor battered face. The wig was gone, and the porcelain mask had been shattered at some point; tiny shards were still embedded in his flesh. Carefully, she removed the fragments from his wounds. How many times she rose to empty the bowl and wring the cloths, she did not know.

With his face temporarily taken care of, Christine turned her attentions to Erik's body, beginning the task of removing his torn and sodden clothing. She eased the ripped and stained shirt away from his bared chest and down his shoulders, pulling off the remains or cutting them away where the edges lay caught by the weight of his body, then stopped, tears filling her eyes. Alongside the fresh wealds were old scars, marring the pale flesh of his back and shoulders, the scars of numerous prior injuries, the marks of a lifetime of savage abuse.

She reached out and gently touched a faded white, raised line. "Oh, my poor angel," Christine whispered, horrified at the realization that this latest beating was only one of many he had endured in his long and solitary existence.

At some point she rose and searched the chamber Erik had slept in, averting her eyes from the broken remains of the coffin and its shredded curtains. He had kept a few small jars of herbal salves and medicines, she remembered. Eventually, after rummaging around through the debris, she found an intact container and hurried with it back to her chamber.

_He did not expect heaven to look like this, dim and soft with candlelight. Indeed, heaven was the place he least expected to awaken. But a voice was speaking somewhere, a voice of gentleness and music. Heaven surely should be a place of music… _

_Cool soft hands touched his nightmare face and body, spreading a soothing balm across the fiery, rending agony that was his flesh. He could sense the angel's presence, the faint sweet scent of her, could feel her love in the tender way she touched him. Forcing his swollen eyes open into a slit, he caught a glimpse of the angel, her luminous blue eyes that shimmered with tears, the white gown, the long chestnut curls. She so resembled his own lost angel, and Erik shut his eyes again, uncomprehending. He slid back into the shadows._

She drew a clean warm woolen blanket from the carved camphor wood chest at the foot of the bed and carefully draped it over Erik's still body. Wearily, the young singer rose from beside the injured man and on unsteady feet walked to the bath chamber. She washed quickly and changed into a fresh dress, discarding the previous one as ruined forever.

With a sigh, Christine sat on the floor beside her dark angel, carefully settling his head into her lap. She had done all she knew to do, and she could not leave him to lie in this silence alone. Her tutor had numerous injuries, and his hands…she clenched her teeth, forcing her eyes away from the swollen, bruised and broken fingers. The ensuing hours became a blur of exhaustion and she spoke or sang to him, desperate to provide some contact, some encouragement to live.

_A hand, soft and gentle, stroked his thin hair, carefully avoiding the areas of swelling and tenderness. The same hand moved down, to lie for a moment pressed against his heart, feeling for its dull thudding, then, apparently reassured, it moved back to lie on his shoulder. With difficulty, he tried to focus his mind. He was warm, his head lying somewhere soft, comfortable in spite of the throbbing pulses of pain. There had been an angel… Exerting his formidable willpower against the waiting shadows, Erik tried to force open his eyes. They focused slowly on the pale face of the woman bent over him. Christine? No, it was not possible, he was hallucinating again…_


	3. Chapter 3

**The Usual Disclaimer**—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, music, religion, history, and French language are mine, and for that, I apologize.

Apologies for the long time in between chapters….this one is hard to write.

Please read and review.

**_A Second Chance_**

Chapter 3

Copyright 2003, 2004 by Riene

Another Autumn

_Winter's coming on; I feel it all around,_

_The leaves are moving faster along the ground…_

_Why have the dreams been broken all apart?_

_And where is all the hope that was in my heart?_

_Another autumn, I've known the chill before_

_But every autumn, I feel it more and more._

_For you can dream in spring_

_When every hope is high_

_But when the fall comes in_

_They all begin to fade and die._

_Another autumn, so sweet when all is well_

_But how it haunts you_

_When all is wrong_

_For one thing time has shown, _

_If you're alone when autumn comes_

_You'll be alone, all winter long…_

From the Broadway production of _Paint Your Wagon_, 1951.

He stepped carefully around the slick stone wall, where the jagged outcropping of real rock abutted the shaped stone of the foundations. Down in the catacombs beneath the Opera lay several old twisting tunnels, carved by the natural erosive action of moving water and by the hand of workmen, laboring for the Commune or for the architect whose designs had created this immense building. Nadir Khan removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and fastidiously wiped the moisture from his fingers. One of these tunnels led to the underground house. He did not clearly remember which one—indeed the events of that harrowing time with the young Viscount had become blurred in his memory, the effect of a near brush with death. Nadir was, however, a man who had survived the treacheries of the Persian court and the dangers of the criminal underworld for most of his adult life. Stooping low, he noted the dark mark along the outermost stone of the second tunnel. With the faintest trace of a satisfied smile he set off into the maze.

She did not hear the outer door open slowly, nor did Christine detect the soft, stealthy footfalls through the underground house, until the harsh voice startled her out of the semi-somnolent state she had fallen into.

He gazed at the scene with disbelief. The state of Erik's underground home had led him to believe that there would be no one within; only the dim candlelight flickering from the opened panel door of the Louis Philippe room had alerted him to a presence. The woman they had braved death to free barely three days ago now sat again on the floor of her old room, leaning wearily against the bed, with Erik's head in her lap, streaks and blotches of blood dotting the bodice of her dress where it had seeped through clumsily applied bandages. Clearly, Christine Daaé had returned to the Opera, and had found her teacher.

"Child," he snapped, "what in the name of your god are you thinking? You should not be here!" Nadir knelt beside the young woman, pressing fingers into the bruised throat of the man who lay so motionless on the floor.

Christine pressed the back of one smudged hand to her flushed cheeks and then across her disheveled hair. "Who are you?" she whispered, her eyes dark, enormous with strain and fear at the sudden appearance of this compact and muscular man.

"An old friend, Nadir Khan," he responded calmly, jade-green gaze narrowed. "And now you will tell me what you are doing here! Where is your fiancé?" As he spoke, Nadir passed his hands down Erik's prone body, professionally assessing the damage, wincing slightly as ribs gave and a faint groan issued from the swollen lips.

"I was...I was worried about him," the young singer stumbled hesitantly. "He was once my teacher, he cared for me...I didn't know what had happened to him, I needed to find out. Raoul's not here, he's been temporarily recalled, something about a change in duty." To her horror, Christine felt the sharp prickle of tears and bit her lip, desperately trying to avoid crying in front of this harsh-voiced stranger who stood, hands on hips, surveying the room.

"Is this your doing?" Nadir gestured at the bandages and salve, the bowl of water and cloth she had used to gently pat Erik's face with, to moisten his cracked lips.

She nodded hesitantly. "I found him lying by the lake. It looked as if he had dragged himself down there. I pulled him back up to the house, on my cloak." Christine's voice broke helplessly. "Monsieur, I'm no nurse. I don't know what to do, but I could not leave him; I feared he would die. I've been praying and praying someone might find the note I left Mme. Giry and send help. He was my friend once…" She looked away from the Persian's probing glance. "How badly is he injured?" she whispered.

"I am no physic!" the Persian snapped, then sighed. "I do not know. However, I do not believe it is yet his time to die. He must have care, though."

The young singer looked up eagerly. "Let me help, M. Khan. You will need someone to assist you."

Nadir Khan glared down at her disdainfully. "You? You have already said you are no nurse, and I rather think you have done enough here! Can you not just leave him alone? Pah," he spat. "Go back to your Viscount and leave Erik. He has already suffered enough at your hands.."

"No." Trembling, she looked up him. "If I have, as you say, caused enough of his suffering, the very least I can do is to help him now. Tell me what I must do."

The Persian looked at her sharply. For this slight young woman to drag a man of Erik's height and weight back up the rough stone path to the underground house, through the darkness and alone, had taken a strong will and determination. Grudgingly, he nodded, and barked a series of curt instructions.

Together, they lifted Erik's motionless form up and onto the bed. Nadir sent her from the room as he stripped Erik's remaining tattered clothing and tended his injuries. Life as the head of the Shah's personal police, and years before that of military service and desert survival training had taught him a certain amount of the necessities of rendering aid to the injured. Rarely had he seen a man beaten to this extent, who yet lived. Grimly, he set about cleaning the wounds and dressing them as best it was possible. Periodically, Nadir ordered the young woman to find clean rags, bring a fresh bowl of water, or to fetch other items as needed. With a sigh, he pulled the bedclothes loosely up above his old nemesis' shoulders, and straightened; easing tight muscles, and stood looking down at the man whose livid injuries were now hidden. "You would hate this, Erik," he murmured. "When I return, I will bring something to ease your rest and to ease your pain. I think it…wise, if you sleep for the present."

Emerging from the bedchamber after some time, Nadir discovered Christine attempting to tidy the outer rooms. In silence, they righted the remaining furniture, and as he bent to lay a fire in the hearth, her footsteps retreated down the hallway into the kitchen, to emerge a few minutes later bearing a tray. Silently, she handed him a cup of black, bitter coffee and sat wearily in the small tapestry chair that had been her own.

"I have done my best," Nadir said after several minutes. "Erik will need constant care for the next several days, and perhaps beyond. I have known him to be injured before, and he has always recovered quickly." He fell silent, staring into the flames.

Christine glanced sideways at this enigmatic man, noting the lines of worry around his tired, sad eyes, and ventured a question. "From where do you know Erik?" she asked softly.

"Persia," he replied absently, sipping the Turkish coffee. "We were both in the service of the Shah." Nadir smiled faintly. "Erik was, for a while, the court magician, before the Shah discovered his other…talents."

"I never knew that," she said quietly. "He would never speak much of his past. I knew only he had been for a while, in the East. I had asked him once about his accent, and where he had learned Arabic."

Nadir smiled faintly, around the chipped rim of his cup. "He is a master at languages, and at other tricks, but that is Farsi he speaks. Would that we had both stayed there, and never come to this damp and dreary land."

Intrigued by this glimpse into his shrouded past, Christine pressed on. "How did you come to be friends?"

Nadir emitted an embittered sound that might have been a bark of laughter. "Erik has no friends. Though, I suppose I am in a way, his friend. He saved my life once, in a time when I had no allies, with only spies and treachery surrounding me. I have never really ever known why he did so--certainly, I was an ever-present thorn in his saddle. When he finally tired of the Orient, I followed him here, to his homeland." He replaced the cup on the low table between them. "Go home now, Mademoiselle, sleep. I will stay with him this night; you need not concern yourself with Erik."

Gathering the cups, Christine bent so her face lay in shadow, but her voice was determined. "I shall come back, M. Khan."

In her office at the turn of the corridor, Mme.Giry looked up, her sharp eyes watching and sharper hearing listening to the patter of slipper clad feet and chattering voices of the _corps de ballet_ as they passed, heading for the first practice since the events of the ill-fated _Don Juan Triumphant_. M. Firmin and M. André had ordered everyone home so that they could assess the damage and try as best as possible to salvage the situation. Now, days later, they must begin the wearisome, difficult task of repairing what they could of the season, of their investments, of their lives and careers. She rose, gathering her thoughts and the list of instructions she had prepared for the girls.

A slight figure passed by, well behind the others, and stopped at the forbidding, furious expression of the ballet mistress. Mme. Giry grasped Christine by the arm and swiftly pulled the young woman into her office.

"_Dieu__ merci_, you are alright." She shook the young singer then whirled to pick up the note from her desk. "Christine, what were you thinking? How could you have gone back down there?"

Christine rubbed her arms, not meeting the older woman's black and furious eyes. "I had to know, Madame Giry," she whispered, "I had to know what happened to him." Her voice trailed off, aware of how inadequate mere words were to explain the complex warring emotions and thoughts of the last few days.

"Christine, you are a _fool!,_" Adele Giry snapped. "And what of the Viscount? What does _he_ think of your trip below again?"

She sank onto the nearest hard wooden chair. "He does not know, Madam Giry. He is gone…and I could not leave Erik to die…I owe him that much, at least."

Mme. Giry covered the young singer's cold hands in her own worn ones. "For Heaven's sake, child, think," the ballet mistress pleaded. "You have once barely escaped with your life. The Opera Ghost is dead…let him remain that way."

Christine looked up, her dark blue eyes suddenly shimmering with the tears and strain of the last twenty-four hours. "He is not dead, Madam Giry….he lives."

The ballet mistress dropped the girl's hands, stunned. "He lives? But I thought…the men said…"

Christine shook her head wearily, and leaned back in the seat, shutting her eyes. A tear streaked down her face and she brushed it away impatiently. "He lives. The Persian is with him now. He's horribly injured, not awake."

"The Opera Ghost lives?" she whispered. "But how?"

Christine shook her head. "I don't know…it is only by the grace of God, the Persian said. I've been down there, helping him tend Erik's injuries, but he sent me away."

"And well he should have." Grimly, the older woman stood, thoughts whirling furiously. "Tell _no one_ of this, Christine! I will do what I can to help. Go on home, sleep if you can. I will make your excuses today—but no more! You must _not_ return down there again!"

The young singer rose to her feet, but shook her head, her face troubled. "I cannot promise that, Madam Giry….he saved me once…I owe him that much, at least."

The Persian's cat-like tread and disdainful eyes caused Christine many hours of distress, yet daily she crept back, to prepare simple meals that she and Nadir did not consume, that Erik could not eat. Daily, she sat beside the injured man, keeping a vigil by his side, talking to him, singing to him until her voice grew hoarse, sponging his face and chest as his fever rose, trickling spoonfuls of water into his mouth. The ballet mistress had sent blankets, food, and medicines, but Erik remained unconscious and his fever soared.

Nadir bent worriedly over him. "We may yet lose him…damnation, I wish we could get a doctor." He turned to encounter Christine's wide, stunned gaze.

"He may die?" she whispered. "But I thought…he's always been so strong…."

Nadir regarded the younger singer queerly for a moment, then relented in the face of her obvious distress. "Child, he is not fighting to recover."

"Not fighting?" she repeated numbly, then walked slowly to the bed and stood looking down at the battered form of the man lying so motionless beneath the coverlet. She looked up wretchedly at the silent Persian, meeting the implied accusation in his eyes steadily. "It is because of me," Christine said quietly. "I never meant for this to happen to him, monsieur. I did not love him, true, nor did I want to marry him. But I would never have had this occur, believe me."

"What is it you do feel for him, Mlle.?" the Persian questioned, his odd jade-green eyes intense, probing.

She turned away from his insistent, sibilant tone, yet not before he caught the momentary flash of memory, of indecision in her eyes, but her voice was firm when she spoke.

"Friendship, M. Khan. And the loyalty of a pupil to her teacher."

The Persian's inscrutable gaze coldly assessed her. "It may not be enough to bring him back."

"It will have to be." She turned her back to him and walked to the bed, to sit wearily in the armchair, prepared to continue the vigil. He observed her in silence for a long minute, and she felt the weight of his disapproving gaze before Nadir Khan turned and left the Louis-Philippe room.

When she was quite certain he was gone, Christine knelt beside the bed and gently smoothed back his sparse hair before she lifted Erik's hand and pressed it to her cheek, mindful of his swollen, splinted fingers. "Oh, Erik," she whispered, tears filling her eyes. His battered face was still repellent in its extreme ugliness, but somehow in the days of caring for him, compassion had overcome her horrified fascination with and abhorrence of his features. She rubbed her cheek once, softly, against his palm, remembering another time his hand had briefly touched her face. "You must recover, Erik. I still need you, my maestro, my friend," she whispered.

_A voice called him by name, urging him. Reluctantly, Erik turned from the shadows and listened. Slowly, his clouded mind focused on the tone, the timbre, the words. Christine? A pain worse than any he had yet experienced drove like a bittersweet blade into his heart. But the words were shaking with emotion, with sorrow, and he could no longer resist the aching pull of the carefully trained, melodious voice…_

He opened his eyes to a dimly lit world of pain. For a moment, an oval white blur swam in and out of focus, before resolving itself into Christine's anxious face. Her long chestnut hair was pulled severely back, and dark circles under her eyes from nights of sleepless worry made them seem even more enormous; they glimmered in the candlelight with unshed tears.

She felt his fingers twitch against her cheek. "Erik?" Christine breathed, hardly daring to hope.

His voice was a barely audible rasp. "Christine…"

Nadir Khan bent over the man in the bed, leaning down close to listen to his painfully whispered words. Erik raised his good arm, reaching for Nadir, before his face twisted with the agony of movement. "Christine…?"

He sighed. "She found you by the lake, Erik, and brought you back up here."

Disbelief warred briefly with anger in the black gaze, before Erik shut his eyes and turned his face slowly toward the wall. "Get her…out of here, Nadir. I cannot…bear her presence," he hissed. "She should not have to see this—no woman should," he spat bitterly.

The Persian frowned. "She has been down here for three days, Erik, helping me care for you. It is she to whom you owe your life, for it is she who somehow dragged you from the lake and into this house, cared for you, kept you from dying." Nadir shook his head. "How could you let them catch you, Erik?" he murmured. "After all this time, you of all people should be a master at hiding."

Black eyes opened into hatred-filled slits. "Goddamn it, Nadir, I wanted them to catch me—I _wanted_ to die!" His voice was filled with loathing and raw with pain. "I am _tired_ of living, Nadir! I am _tired_ of retreating down here like an animal into its lair." Wearily, he shifted slightly under the coverlet. "Now--take her and go! She chose to leave, and I do not wish to ever see her again."

* * *

Please review, and thank you for reading. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note—**It has been a while since my last update—sorry! The vast majority of this has been written for weeks, but tying it together into something coherent…well, between traveling and an uncooperative muse, this story is progressing slowly. In this chapter, the managers despair, Erik finally makes an appearance, but he is a bitterly unhappy man, not willing to easily let go of the past. Raoul shows up as well, and has a conversation with Christine. All is not blissfully happy for our favorite characters, I am afraid….

**The Usual Disclaimer**—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, music, religion, military history, and the French language are mine, and for that, I apologize.

Please read and review.

_**A Second Chance**_

_Chapter 4_

Copyright 2003, 2004 by Riene

Once Your Had Gold

Once you had gold,

Once you had silver,

Then came the rains

out of the blue.

Ever and always.

Always and ever.

Time gave both darkness and dreams to you.

Now you can see

Spring becomes autumn,

leaves become gold

falling from view.

Ever and always.

Always and ever.

No one can promise a dream come true,

Time gave both darkness and dreams to you.

What is the dark

shadows around you,

why not take heart

in the new day?

Ever and always.

Always and ever.

No one can promise a dream for you,

Time gave both darkness and dreams to you.

Lyrics by Enya and Roma Ryan

from the CD _The Memory Of Trees_

The better part of a bottle of wine gone between them, M. André and Firmin sat grimly reviewing the account books before them in the office of the managers..

"We are ruined, André, ruined.." M. Firmin muttered, staring morosely into the depths of his glass.

M. André sighed and stood, stretching muscles cramped by hours of reports, estimates of repairs, of angry letters from patrons demanding their seasonal subscriptions be refunded. "So you keep saying," he said bitterly. "What we need are suggestions, Richard, not accusations and finger-pointing."

M. Firmin shrugged. "What would you have me say, Gilles?" He thrust aside the newspaper with its screaming headlines and gestured at the results of the latest post beneath. "We have no soprano, no tenor. M. Reyer demands a rise before he will return…his nerves are shattered, he says. _His_ nerves?" The manager raised his glass and drained its contents, then reached for the bottle again. "The House itself needs more in repairs than we have capital to meet. We_ are_ ruined, Richard."

M. André swirled the dregs of his own wine absently, staring out at the swirling snow. "We can find another singer. Or two, or even three. And do not forget, we still have Miss Daaé, at least until she marries. What if we don't repair the chandelier?" He turned and raised a letter from the untidy mess of his desk. "There are many repairs needed to the building—but this is the perfect time to install electricity. We could hang instead an electric light." He slapped the sheet with growing enthusiasm." Think of it, Richard…electrical light! We'd be the first in France! The chandelier could be lighter weight, less costly. People would flock to see it!"

"Gilles, you are raving. With what money? And to light what performances?" M. Firmin said irritably.

"Bah, man, think. We've still the _corps de ballet_, the acrobats, the musicians, the support staff, the stage crews—where else are they going to find employment? Comedy…perhaps a comedy." He spoke with growing enthusiasm. "A grand reopening!"

The moment rehearsal was through, Christine began her daily journey through the catacombs and tunnels beneath the cellars. Absorbed in her thoughts of Erik's return to consciousness, and of the announced new and revised schedule of productions, the first positive news since the turbulent events at the Opera, she failed to consider the implications of the missing small lantern until at the entry of the underground house, and had simply brought along the nearest candelabra. She set it aside and put her small hands against the crevasse in the cold damp rock and pushed against the stone slab, idly marveling again as the silent immense limestone piece opened on its concealed, oiled mechanism.

A shadow fell across the opening, and Nadir blocked the door, an indecipherable look on his face. "I am sorry, Mlle., but you cannot enter here; he does not wish to see you." He stood immobile, abruptly foreign and unfamiliar again, obdurate and implacable as a statue.

Stung, stunned, Christine looked up at him. "Why? What have I done?"

The Persian shook his head. "That is not for me to say." His expression softened. "Please, Mlle. Daaé, do not question. Just go…for once respect his wishes."

She raised her chin, refusing to show this hard-faced foreign man the true depth of her confusion, of her hurt, yet there was no recourse but to accede to his demands. "Will you tell him I came, then, to see him? And you tell him that I…I hope he is doing better?" Unable to think of anything else to say in the face of this rejection, Christine turned and walked slowly away, slowly returning to the world above, her thoughts to painful to examine.

Lying in darkness, weighed down by pain, Erik roused himself slightly, hearing voices echo down the long corridor, then slumped back onto the bed, horrified at his near helplessness, at this terrible weakness. He remembered whirling blackness, pain crashing at him from all sides, his own cries drowned out in the rage and destruction, then nothing for a very long time. He frowned, concentrating. Clouded, dim memory crept back, of damp rough stone and sodden ground, seeping away the warmth of his body, the cold scent of chill water. As his strength had slowly ebbed had come the awareness that he was dying.

There were other fever-blurred memories from the hours or perhaps days of voices and hands, and the knowledge that once he lay held and secure in someone's arms. How many times had he dreamed of that, in his long and lonely life, how it would feel to simply be held and touched by another human being? How many times had he dared dream of Christine looking at him with concern, with love? And now…he had ordered her away twice. He could not ask her to return, now that he so desperately needed her, her warmth, her gentleness. "Oh, Christine," he whispered, aching loss and longing voiced in that single word.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and Nadir stepped into the room. "You are awake, I see."

"Yes." Erik forced open his eyes and then turned from the painful light of the single candle. Embers in the hearth glowed red under their furring of ash, casting a red glow into the soft golden light of the room. Eventually, he turned back, meeting the weary dark gaze of his oldest acquaintance. "Christine?"

The Persian sighed. "Yes, and I did send her away as you asked. She was…hurt, I think."

Erik frowned and turned aside from the thoughts of what could have been. The past was the past. He drew in another painful breath. "How long have I been like this?"

"Nearly a week, _doost man_." Nadir turned the straight wooden chair around and sat, straddling it, leaning on his crossed arms and watching with tired eyes. "You have a broken arm, several broken fingers, cracked and broken ribs, head injuries, multiple lacerations, and I am certain there are internal injuries as well. You've been feverish, you've lost considerable weight. In short, you are damned lucky not to have died."

"Would that I had; I would be less a nuisance to you now," he said bitterly. "Your old debt is repaid tenfold."

With an effort, Nadir reined in his temper, tightening his grip on the carved mahogany. "I did not do it for the sake of Mazanderan, Erik."

"Such nobility of spirit, such compassion," he sneered. "You have assured yourself place in Paradise, Nadir."

The Persian took a deep breath; arguing with this man was ever futile, and Erik had never tolerated ill health well, it always turned his temper foul. "Do you feel like eating anything?"

"No. I desire nothing but to be left alone," came the derisive response from the bed, and Nadir felt his temper slip.

"You cannot lie down here in this darkness like an animal, Erik!" he snapped, suddenly furious.

"I can and I will, Nadir" Erik retorted. "I am an animal. Unfit for human companionship. God knows I was told that often enough as a child. Now go and leave me alone. I just want to die." Exhausted at the stream of vitriolic words, his head fell back limply on the pillows, and he turned his face to the wall, trying vainly to still the coughing that sent rivers of agony along his cracked ribs and left him coughing blood.

Nadir waited patiently until the spasm was over, gripping the edge of the chair until he could speak without his temper flaring again. "No, by Allah, you are no animal. A devil, maybe. But you are no animal," he said bitterly. "How many times I watched you in Manzederan…" He stopped, struggling to control the red rage that swam before his vision.

"Would that I had simply let the Shah take my life then," came the hissing raw voice from the bed, volumes of loathing evident in the tone. "I cared little for my life then, Daroga; I care less for it now. It would have simplified matters enormously."

Days passed, days in which he took a few halting steps to the chair, then crept slowly about the underground house. His arm hurt with a dull throb, but the cold of the cellars caused his hands to ache unbearably, and he remained ensconced inside the lair. Nadir Khan came and went at irregular frequency, sometimes bringing news of the outside world, but more often a bit of fruit, a newspaper, a novel—anything to distract the bitter man who lived beneath the cellars. Erik was in turns sullen and withdrawn, or lashing out with a barbed hostility far different from his usual cynicism. Eventually the day came when the Persian no longer arrived at the underground house, and Erik reflected resentfully that he was now truly alone, as he had not been alone in many years.

Raoul strode into the vestibule and tossed his officer's hat onto the marble-topped table, then angrily continued in search of his brother. He found Philippe seated at their father's large walnut desk, discussing matters of business with Sebastian Arnaud, the agent who managed the Estate's holdings in trade. The employee glanced from the younger son's tight face to the elder brother's closed expression and rose, making his excuses. Philippe dismissed the man with a formal nod, and turned coolly to his brother.

"I presume you wanted to see me about something?" he inquired, rising to pour himself a drink.

Raoul flung his formal gloves onto the desk and dropped into the armchair across from it, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his naval uniform coat and loosening his collar. He attempted to speak civilly, despite his simmering rage. "I have been three days now overseeing the outfit of the _Guyenne_, and find now I am to be assigned to her as well? Philippe, I am on leave, after months of duty! Why this sudden change in my orders?"

Philippe resumed his position behind the desk, sipping the aged scotch calmly, and at his brother's continued silence, Raoul's eyes narrowed; he swore softly. "This is your doing, my brother, isn't it? Why are you sending me away?"

Ice-blue eyes raked him over. "Evangie and I have discussed it, and Lydia agrees. We think it best if you distance yourself, and consequently, the family name, from the disgraceful events at the Opera." His face hardened. "You can dandle any number of chorus girls, or divas for all I care, but you will not become _involved_ with any of them, much less bring the family name into the forefront of public notice. And you will most certainly not presume to marry one of them."

A flush of ugly color stained the young sun-browned man's cheekbones. "And what of your own _relationship_ with La Sorelli? You have no right to tell me whom I may or may not marry, Philippe."

If possible, Philippe's eyes grew colder, and he leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers. "My…arrangements…with La Sorelli are none of your concern, my brother. And it is true," he admitted candidly, "that I cannot tell you whom to marry—but I can have you reassigned." He made an attempt to soften his voice. "Raoul, this engagement is a mistake. Yes, you were friends as children, but your lives are very different now!"

"I shall resign my commission!" Raoul said heatedly, white lines around his nose and mouth.

"And do what, then, with your life?" Philippe inquired reasonably. "You are not trained for any other profession, and you know Father meant you to have a career in the navy."

"Oh, damn the navy!" he cried passionately. "It is Christine that matters to me!"

Philippe sighed. "You will forget each other in time, and my brother—it is done—you have very little choice."

Raoul stood up, one fist clenched bloodlessly and spun on his heel toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Philippe asked mildly.

"To the devil!" Raoul snapped, and behind him, Philippe watched him go with something akin to grief.

The rapid click of his boot heels followed Raoul as he strode angrily down the street, fueled by white-hot anger. The _Guyenne_ was due to be sent southward to Tunis next week. The Bey of Tunis had accepted his country's status—albeit reluctantly—as that of a French protectorate, and several ships were being deployed toward Africa's northern coast, to see it remained so. _One week…_

He knew without asking Christine would not agree to a hastily arranged marriage before that time, yet he had no choice but to try. She had been reluctant to agree to the public announcement of their engagement, but that reason, at least, was no longer an issue. The Opera Ghost was dead. The workmen and the various crew members had lifted many a glass in the pub nearest the Opera, to the demise of the Phantom who lived beneath the Palais Garnier, and whom had tormented their lives for so long.

Christine was not at the Opera, and Raoul found her at last in the little home she kept since the death of Mama Valerius. Her evident happiness at seeing him faded rapidly at the sight of his black countenance, and her face fell.

"Come in, Raoul, what is wrong?" She stepped back from the door as he brushed past her, not noticing the dark circles beneath her eyes, and she followed him on in to the parlor.

She perched on the edge of the worn settee, smoothing her rose-colored skirts absently, raising worried dark blue eyes. Raoul drew a chair near and sat, then leaned forward and caught her hands. "Christine, the _Guyenne_ sails in six days' time. She has been in refit, and as you know, I've been helping to oversee the resupply. I am assigned to her, my love. We are headed to Tunis."

She gasped and tears filled her eyes. "Oh, Raoul, you'll be gone for years!"

He nodded grimly. "Three years, most likely. Christine, I must ask before we depart, for I'll not have much time these next few days—will you marry me before we sail? It would set my mind at ease, knowing I had provided for you." He gave her hands a gentle squeeze and stood, pacing the slightly old-fashioned, shabby room. The Viscount grasped his formal gloves tightly, determined to say nothing, giving the young woman he loved a chance to decide on her own.

Christine watched him as he walked, her mind whirling. A wedding, in only a few days' time. It could be done, yes, a simple ceremony before a priest. But Raoul was Catholic, and she, Lutheran, as were most Scandinavians. They had never really discussed these details; there had simply been no time, caught up as they had been in the tempestuous events of the autumn, and of her schedule. Religious differences might be an obstacle, and then…

She looked up at him. "Raoul, where would I live, what would I do? Three years is such a long time!"

He turned from where he stood by the window, looking sightlessly across the street and smiled. "I suppose you could continue at the Opera; you would need something to fill your days, and as for where you would live, why you would live with my family—it is a tradition. All new de Chagny brides come home. You could live here in the city; we keep a house in one of the arrondissements, or you could live at Beauvais, where our country estate is. It would be up to you. I only want to make you happy, darling."

Raoul's blue eyes were earnest, tender, and Christine felt herself blush. "Oh my love," she murmured. "What am I to do? I cannot have a dress made so quickly, there are so many arrangements to be made—this flat, my trousseau, we must talk to the priest—Raoul—I am Lutheran—do you not remember? I don't see how we _could_ be married in so short a time."

The young Viscount raked a hand through his hair, rumpling the wheat-gold waves, and groaned. "I didn't think of that. Oh, of course that is an obstacle." He frowned, and said honestly, "I didn't think it would come to pass, Christine. This assignment is all due to Philippe's machinations; he does not wish us to wed. And I thought, perhaps somehow…" Raoul sighed. "I am only thinking of you. Three years is so long—I didn't want you to be alone; I worry about you so. I know you don't want to stay with my family. They can be…" his voice trailed off, thinking of his overbearing sister Evangeline, and of Philippe. "…well, difficult," he concluded awkwardly.

Christine smiled suddenly, tears sparkling in her eyes. "Oh, my love," she whispered, "this is goodbye then, is it not?"

He drew her up against him, her hands small and cold within his, and stood looking down into her upturned pale face. "I've little choice, Christine. They can court-martial me if I do not go on this voyage. I could resign my commission, but as Philippe says, what else am I to do?" He circled her with his arms holding the young singer tightly as she wept. "I'll not ask you to keep our engagement, nor even ask you to wait for me. Perhaps, if you are still here when I return…" he said hoarsely, his voice trailing off.

She pulled back, searching his blue eyes. "I have waited half my life for you, Raoul, what are another few years?"

But the Viscount shook his head. "I may be gone for a very long time, _mon coeur_. The political situation in Tunis is far from stable, and more than one man has returned home to lie in French soil in a box. Don't wait for me, Christine. If you find someone to love you, who will be good to you, while I am gone…don't hesitate. I will understand."

He stooped and kissed her gently, not wanting to prolong his stay and cause her more grief. They had survived one parting, perhaps another was not impossible.

With shaking hands the young singer slowly removed the gold and ruby ring he had presented to her last autumn, but Raoul closed his larger hand over hers.

"Keep it, _ma petite_," he whispered, pulling her close for one last embrace. "Keep it and think of me when ever you see it." Raising her hand to his lips, he brushed her knuckles in a gentle kiss of parting, and then straightened.

"I will wait for you, Raoul, however long it takes. _Adieu_, my love," Christine whispered back, "go with God." She stood in the doorway of the small shabby house, watching him go with too-bright eyes, then quietly closed the door.

* * *

Notes—The language used here is Farsi, the language of Persia, now Iran. I've done my best with it, but please correct me if needed. _doost__ man_–my friend

Electrical lighting was installed in the Opera House in 1881…I've altered the date a bit here for the purposes of the story.

The _Guyenne_ was a real ship, a Provence Class Broadside Ironclad of the French Navy, commissioned in 1865 and lost in 1882. To my knowledge, she did not have an officer by the name of Raoul de Chagny.

Thank you for reading, and please review.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note**—You have been patient with me while my muse has been elsewhere…my apologies. There are times I wonder if I can write at all anymore. Thank you, everyone, who have written, asking me to get busy with the pen and keyboard, and to update this story. The previous four chapters have been revised somewhat, to better meld with this update. The reader might want to review them…as it hasbeen some time.

**The Usual Disclaimer**—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, music, religion, military history, and the French language are mine, and for that, I apologize.

Please read and review. 

**A Second Chance**

**_Chapter 5_**

Copyright 2003, 2004 by Riene

_Admonition_

No, I am through and you can call in vain.  
There is too great a fee for your caress;  
Too great a share of heartbreak and of pain  
And all the kindred hurts of loneliness.  
What does it mean at best? A fevered hour  
When I forget that you are not for me;  
Your charm aglow like some exotic flower  
To rouse again the waves of memory.

No, I am through--the trumpet call of youth  
Must sound in vain--for I have need of rest;  
You have no peace to give--no certain truth--  
And I am sick and weary of my quest.

Leave me to books and wine and memories--  
Nothing you have to give can equal these!

--Philip Stack

Finally unable to bear the accursed silence of these rooms that now felt a living tomb, Erik roused himself and dressed with painful care one late evening. Tonight was the final performance of the winter chamber music concert series, and the lure of distraction proved too much for him to not seek. By chance, his Box Five remained unsold, as did several other private boxes, and numerous seats below in the stalls. At one time the desire to find the cause of this unlikely abandonment would have given him purpose, but for tonight, he was merely grateful.

Erik huddled into the shadows, feeling drawn, hollowed, old as he had never felt himself to be old before, listening as the music flowed around him. His aching fingers clasped themselves together, then rose and clung desperately to a fold of his cloak, as though to anchor himself down. He was weightless, falling into the aching beauty of the liquid notes, the glorious harmony of the strings as the ensemble began the final descant of the Brahms quartet.

And then it was over. The swelling applause and cheers jarred unpleasantly with the last lingering notes. Erik opened his eyes and glared venomously at the crowd below, then rose, drawing the warm folds of the cloak about his shoulders, and slipped into the shadows behind the column to make his solitary retreat down the damp tunnels, back to his underground lair.

A week, perhaps, or more had passed since he had spoken to the Persian, assuring him that he would not take his own life. Erik clenched his hands in anger. Like many things in his wretched existence, even the cold comfort of death's waiting arms was denied him. There was no more point to his existence—and there had not been so, he realized, in a very long time.

Irritably, Erik pushed away these thoughts and walked to the organ, touching it, stroking its polished wooden sides. For so long it had been his outlet, his oppressed soul finding expression in music. But like his voice, his flair for composition, the organ too was unresponsive, broken, shrouded and silent in the vast, empty underground room. He turned once more and cast himself down into the throne-like seat in front of the fire and stiffly removed the mask. The injuries had finally healed to the point he could bear its pressure against his face. He stared grimly into the dull red coals, reflecting not for the first time how much easier it would have been if the crowd had simply been allowed to complete its job. The flames assumed shape, gained substance to his tired eyes, and once again, he seemed to see her, bent over him, through the haze of pain, an angel in the blurred red-black darkness. It seemed he could feel the softness of her white gown against the back of his aching skull, her gentle fingers touching his hideous, beaten and damaged face, her soft voice singing, a look of love, of concern in her dark blue eyes.

Furiously, Erik shook his head. He had been near death, hallucinating. Christine was gone, beyond his reach, far away with her lover; she would not return to him now. As always, his mind turned inexorably to their last minutes together, and the feather-light pressure of her lips on his, as his existence reeled from the sudden sensory overload. She had pulled back in confusion then, staring wordlessly into his dilated black eyes, before he reached out and drew her to him, crushing her body against his, plundering her mouth. He had known then, in a blinding flash of realization, of intuition, that she was his as she kissed him back eagerly, her hands tightening around the lapels of his jacket, as she pulled his body down against hers.

And so, Erik had made the only choice possible, to spare her a lifetime of horror. He had not truly known, until that moment, what it was to love someone. He had wanted her, yes, wanted her for himself—to sing for him, to protect and nurture, to purchase lovely baubles for, to be his wife. But until that painful, blinding moment of clarity, he had not really known what it meant to love someone, to want their happiness beyond your own…

Tired of the endless downward spiral of these thoughts, he rose again, drifting aimlessly through the underground house like a wraith, which was, he sneered inwardly, appropriate.

------------------

Her days stretched out into an undifferentiated pattern, rehearsal, performance, practice, broken only by the occasional dinner with friends. There was no word from Raoul; his ship was still too far from port for any letters, any correspondence.

Their final parting had been brief and poignant. They had met for dinner the night before, and had walked about the old city for hours after, talking and clinging to each other. The next morning the ironclad had lain at anchor, the decks crowded with seamen and officers standing at attention as the ship's great steam engines slowly came to power and the immense coils of rope slid away from the dockside cleats. Around her, wives and girlfriends, parents and children wept or cheered as the sleek ship began to move slowly out to sea. Raoul stood with the other men, until they abruptly began to move about, busy with the tasks at hand.

She had watched as the ship left the port of Le Havre, disappearing slowly from sight. The train ride back to Paris had passed in a blur of misery and longing. Once again, she was alone.

From Erik there was only silence, a waiting silence that lingering on and on. She had no idea what to expect from him, but surely there would have been some word from Nadir Khan had his injuries taken a turn for the worse. Standing alone in her dressing room, she thought of the endless patient hours he had put into training her voice, the careful lessons, the comfort and encouragement when her fears and frustrations had overwhelmed her precarious control.

Christine sighed, facing the silent, still mirror. She was forbidden admission to the underground world, and in the perverse way of human nature, now desired it more than she had once thought possible.

-------------------

He paced the floors of the lair, consumed by burning thoughts of the music, the first he had experienced now in three weeks. Looking back, Erik could simply not remember a time when he had gone for so long without music surrounding him, permeating his life. But now, it was as if a core of liquid heat had been ignited within him, and the desire to compose, to play again became an obsession, despite the almost insurmountable obstacle of his hands.

From the time he was a small child, music had been of supreme importance in his miserable existence. He could remember listening as his mother played, creeping down to stand unnoticed in the shadows by the parlor doors, listening avidly. His beautiful, graceful mother, making such lovely sounds on the old instrument. It became his passion to make those sounds as well, for surely then he could win her long-denied love, and her oft-denied attention.

_The room was empty, the house silent; with prudence borne of his few years' experience, Erik stood timidly, cautiously by the pianoforte, with a careful finger testing each note one at a time, listening intently to the sounds they made. These two, these three sounded pleasurable to his small ears, the sounds resonating through his thin body. These sounds, these notes clashed, causing him to turn aside abruptly, shaking his head. This set of notes belonged somehow together in a family, and repeated again above, and below. These keys together sounded sad. These notes, this grouping somehow sounded incomplete, as though they needed just one more final set of tones to end a story. And now these, yes, they ended the story properly. Absorbed in the wonder of this most magical of instruments, he did not see his mother, standing silently in the doorway, watching. _

_At first, her inclination had been to banish him upstairs again, to punish him for defiling the piano with his touch, but as she stood, thoughts slowly coalesced in her mind...her freakish son was sounding out scales, arpeggios, chords. A dominant seventh here, a major triad there. Madeleine clasped her hands together tightly, enough of a musician herself to realize what was happening. Her son, her horribly disfigured child, whose manic moods and tempers knew no boundaries, was standing silent and absorbed in this instrument. _

_She made a sudden, unintentional gesture, and Erik whirled, his eyes growing wide with fear. He snatched his hands away from the gleaming ivory keys as though scalded and backed away, a whimper growing, escaping his throat. "I'm sorry, Mamma, I'm sorry…I'll not do it again, please, please don't hit me…" Frantically the little boy edged away from the pianoforte, hunching his back, his hands coming up to cover his face, to shield himself as best he could from the angry blows which were sure to follow. But…nothing happened, and after a moment, Erik did dare to peer from between his fingers._

_Madeleine stood in the doorway, her dress of shimmering sea-green silk seeming to glow softly in a shaft of morning sunlight. Glittering, dancing sunbeams surrounded her, lighting her dark auburn hair, seeming to caress her ivory-gold skin. His black eyes grew round, as once again he forgot his place, and stammered out, "Mamma…you look so beautiful…"_

_She smiled involuntarily at the wonder in his voice, and whether it was the heartfelt, genuine love and belief in his hesitant words, or her amazement in his newfound ability, Madeleine smiled down at her son and said softly, "If you will take care not to harm the pianoforte, Erik, you may learn to play it."_

_Astonishment at this unexpected permission caused him to grow white, then flush red, stunned. "I may, Mamma? I may play it?" he stammered. At her nod of acquiescence, Erik felt the world had suddenly given him a most miraculous gift. His mother approved. She had smiled at him. He was to be allowed to make the lovely sounds. He would make lovely sounds—he would learn to play, to please her, to earn her love._

Reveling in this unaccustomed freedom, Erik threw himself into music with all the fervor of one possessed, and indeed there were nights when he neither ate nor slept, days when he never moved from the piano until his thin exhausted abused small body simply dropped from weariness, and he slept, curled up beside the piano, one hand touching it possessively, even in his sleep. He demanded of his mother how to read the small black markings on the pages of music, the limp folios of songs whose worn covers soon fell to tatters. Within a year he had far bypassed her skills, but needed no teacher, for Erik seemed to have some intuitive understanding of music, of harmony, of meter. He demanded new music, popular airs, works from the great composers, and Madeleine agreed, for once again, compliance was more simple, to give in and do as he asked, rather than to face the terrible tantrums that her strange son was capable of causing. But the temper flare-ups grew fewer and fewer as the years passed, as his skill grew, and soon Erik no longer cried himself to sleep in fury over the inadequacy of his abilities.

One summer, Madeleine happened upon an old violin at the county market, offered for only a few francs by an itinerant peddler, and thinking to ease his obsession with the piano, she bought it. Fortune had it that the strings and bow were adequate, and soon Erik played this instrument too as if he had been born to it.

But now, now his injured arm could not hold a bow, and his crippled aching hands could neither curve to touch the slender metal strings of the precious violin, nor bear the painful pressure of pressing down upon the worn ivory keys of his piano. He tried to force them around the stump of a pen, to write the glorious notes in his head on whatever scraps of paper he could salvage, but the joints swelled, and agonies of pain throbbed down past his wrists. Despairing, Erik plunged his aching, swollen fingers into bowls of icy water, trying to numb the pain, and the ferocity of his desire to compose.

Exhausted from the overwhelming need to find expression in music and the inability to do so, Erik turned his hatred and fury inward, driving himself relentlessly, cleaning the underground house for the first time since the mob, slipping out of the cellars for the first time in a month to purchase fresh paper and ink, a new pen. He gave up all thoughts of food and rest, possessed by inner tormenting demons of music, as he had been these many years ago.

-----------------------

Christine lifted the crimson folio, seeking the proper page. Rehearsals for the new concert were to begin soon, and she must be ready. Standing before the great mirrored wall, she settled her shoulders into the proper posture taught by her dark maestro, and lifted her chin. Softly, knowing no one else was likely to be lingering on this end of the hallway in the late afternoon, she lifted her voice in a series of scales and exercises.

-----------------------

Far below in the cellars, Erik stood abruptly, every fiber of his body wire-tense, striding rapidly to the other side of the room. From the sideboard, he poured himself a second, stiffer brandy, aware of Nadir's disapproving gaze.

"You are drinking too much, Erik," the Persian said quietly.

"Does it affect your Muslim sensibilities, Nadir?" sneered Erik. "I know my limits, and unfortunately, I am nowhere near them."

The Persian's green eyes narrowed, flashing, his lips thinned. "You are not the only one near your limits, Erik. I am out of patience with you." A long moment passed as the two men glowered at each other.

"_Bebakhshid_, Nadir…" he sighed irritably. "You ought not come down here. I'm not fit for company, not that I ever was. This…" he gestured at the ceiling, concealed in shadow, "this constant reminder has set my nerves on edge."

Warily, the Persian settled back into his seat, watching the man's agitated pacing. "Erik, you ought to move from here."

"And go where? Do you think I like to return down here, like a wounded animal retreats down to its lair?" He spun around and threw the cut-glass snifter violently into the fireplace.

The dregs of brandy ignited, sending greenish flames licking upward, illuminating the dim room in a temporary hellish intensity. Behind the mask, Erik's dilated eyes caught the red-orange incandescence of the flames. For not the first time, Nadir was reminded of the old images from the sacred texts. He rose gracefully but swiftly to his feet, inclining his head toward his host. "As you wish, Erik. I think perhaps I will leave you now, before you are tempted to do me a mischief as well."

"Go, then," Erik snarled, not looking at him. "Go back to your flat and your servants and your life. I have no need of _you_!"

The Persian gave him one last disdainful nod, and was gone. For a long minute Erik glared venomously down into the flames, until the crackling of the fire was interrupted by a distant soprano voice. Whirling, he stood, staring up at the ceiling, then without pausing to examine the repercussions for his next action, snatched his hat from the hook in the foyer, and cloak swirling, swiftly ascended to the upper floors of the Opera.

* * *

_Bebakhshid_—"I'm sorry" 

Thank you for reading, and please review.


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